


Tombé

by ackermom



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ballet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 11:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ackermom/pseuds/ackermom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1. tombé: fallen down, used of a ballet movement with accent on the descent; 2. tomber en amour: to fall in love</p><p>The New York City Ballet’s golden boy is out for a sprain. At least his physical therapist is hot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tombé

**Author's Note:**

> rewritten 4/9/17

**one.**

The chat boards are alight with gossip. The most up and coming dancer on the scene, NYCB’s golden boy, is put out for a training sprain in his right knee. Rumors have already begun spinning. Most say it will be the last anyone ever hears of him. It’s the beginning of the season, after all; with the months that it will take for a full recovery, he’s going to miss everything. It will be the end of him. He’ll be out too long and he won’t be able to catch up to return to the company. Others exaggerate the matter even more. He won’t ever walk again, they say, much less dance.

Levi reads all of this, silently, seething, in the crowded privacy of his hospital room. His fingers whisking back and forth between pages and pages of rumors, he scrolls through the chat boards on his phone, and a quiet pique curls it way through his heart and into his veins. He scratches at the bandages around his knee

“It’s not that bad,” the doctor tells him. “Well, it’s bad. But it’s not _that_ bad.”

Not _that_ bad, he muses. No one tells him what bad means. Out for a year bad? Out for two years bad? Out forever bad?

He’s a dick to the nurses. He can’t help it. Well, he could. But he won’t. No one will tell him anything. No one will be straight with him about the future that faces him, about whether next season will find him on stage or in the audience. So he lets his temper get the best of him and he’s a dick to the nurses.

When Hange comes to take him home, she rips the headphones from his ears- “ _A Chorus Line_ , Levi, really?”- and throws him a pair of oversized sunglasses.

“What the hell are these for?” Levi grumbles.

His wheelchair jostles as she pushes him into the elevator, and he grips the arms when she violently spins him around to face the doors. They close in front of him.

“You’re a big deal now,” she says. “The paparazzi want to know everything.”

Levi slides the sunglasses on. “There’s nothing to know.”

**two.**

He’s sure that his physical therapist is secretly a male model: with that perfectly styled blonde hair, that sharp jawline, and the hint of a summer tan, even in the dead of New York winter. This guy certainly is a- man. Levi tries not to watch the way his green polo shirt wraps around his biceps, or the way he ever so lightly bites his lips as he reads Levi’s chart, or the way he presses his fingers gingerly against Levi’s knee to test his pain. Is he an ex swimwear model? No one just _looks_ like that.

When Levi winces, the physical therapist flashes him a sunny smile. “Sorry,” he says. “I can see your knee is still quite tender. I’ll be gentler.”

Levi drops his head back against the treatment table and crosses his arms, swallowing. He stares at his reflection in the grimy mirrors that line the ceiling of the small room as the physical therapist continues poking and twisting his knee. Levi grimaces. The man’s hands are firm and warm. But there’s no way he cleans his shower grout regularly.

“This is a serious injury you’ve sustained,” the therapist says, sitting back on his stool. It rolls forward a little, and he sets his elbow against the end of the treatment table as he stares down at Levi, who shifts uncomfortably.

“Yeah,” Levi grumbles. He pulls himself up on his elbows. “No shit.”

“You’ve partially sprained your medial collateral ligament. You’ll find movement difficult for a while, and you should avoid putting weight on this leg. We have a lot of work ahead of us, but I except we’ll do just fine, in due course.”

Levi’s jaw clicks. “I think I saw you in an underwear catalog once.”

“I did some modeling in college. Now, let’s talk about your schedule…”

“Was it nude modeling?”

The physical therapist sighs, dropping his clipboard into his lap. Levi squints at his nametag. Smith? Is that a first name or a last name?

“Levi,” Smith starts, and Levi purses his lips. “Can I call you Levi?”

“…fine.”

“I understand how difficult this is for your,” he says. “It can be quite debilitating to lose mobility, especially for someone in your line of work. To be incapacitated in such a manner that forces a person to rely on others for things they are used to doing themselves-”

“Cut the crap, ok?” Levi exclaims.

Smith pauses. His mouth hangs open, as if he is going to say something else. But after a beat of silence, he sits back in his chair, his lips pursed, and he listens.

“I’m not here to talk about my feeling,” Levi says. He pulls himself up on the table and swings his legs over the edge, narrowly missing the physical therapist with one of his feet. “If I wanted a shrink, I’d hire a real doctor. I’m just here because my knee is fucked up and I can’t dance with this-”

 _This shit_ , he’s going to say, but Smith is looking rather like he wants Levi to have a dramatic outburst, as if to justify his point. Levi sucks in a breath, looking away.

“I’m just here to fix my knee,” he says. “The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can pas de basque my way out of here.”

A moment of silence passes before Levi glances up again. Smith is watching him, and when their eyes meet, he gives Levi a light smile.

“You’re not going to be pas de basque-ing anywhere,” Smith says. “This is a serious injury which will require extensive therapy. I anticipate three or four months of weekly therapy before we can even consider you dancing again. It’s going to be a long process, but working with athletes is my specialty, and I hope you’ll appreciate that I am doing what is best for you.”

Levi scoffs. He’s not _that_ hot.

“I’d rather just get down to business,” he mumbles.

Smith smiles again, suddenly golden. “Then let’s get started.”

**three.**

It’s raining again when Levi stumbles outside on his crutches. Hange is there, her head leant back against the clinic wall, a cigarette sticking out between her lips, humming to herself as she waits for him. She pops upright when he hobbles past her.

“Hey!” she exclaims, dashing after him. “How’d it go?”

Levi hobbles towards the curb. “Let’s go.”

They get stuck waiting for the train. Someone’s thrown themselves onto the tracks two stations ahead, and the now the whole city is stuck playing catch-up as emergency crews clean up. Levi waits impatiently. He would never be that selfish. Above them, winter rain pounds down on the ground; around them, passengers get restless. When they finally get on a train, the whole car reeks of sweat. Levi throws himself into the nearest seat, closes his eyes, and sighs. The train has barely pulled away before he cracks his eyes open to find Hange staring at him.

“What?” he grumbles.

“Nothing,” Hange says. She stands above him, one hand over her head to grab a metal bar for support. As the train lurches, she sways, and so does her oversized coat. “I’m just wondering what happened in there. You haven’t said anything.

He glances out the window at the subway lights that flash as the train speeds by them. “It was fine.”

“Does your knee feel any better?”

“It was one session, Hange. If anything, my knee hurts more.”

She chews on her lip for a moment. “What about your physical therapist?” she asks, breaking into a grin. “I saw him take you back to the exam room. Did he give you a good exam?”

Levi glances up at her. “What?”

She shrugs. “Well, he kind of looks like your type.”

He scowls. “I don’t have a type.”

“You’re into persons of authority.”

“Anyways,” Levi says, talking over her as he turns back to the window, “it doesn’t matter, because he’s a twat.”

“What? No, come on, Levi.”

“He’s patronizing,” Levi mumbles. The train jerks and one of his crutches clatters to the floor. He lets Hange get it. “You should have heard him, saying all this crap like _you can do it, Levi_ when, obviously, I can’t do it.”

“That’s his job, you dick.”

“He’s condescending, Hange. If you had heard him, you would agree.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re overreacting.”

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure his hands didn’t need to be that close to my ass.”

Hange sighs.

**four.**

“You never told me your name,” Levi says three weeks into his rehabilitation. He’s perched on a plastic chair, his fingers gripping at the sides as he bends his knee and lifts it up. Bend, lift, hold… drop. Bend, lift, hold… drop. Repeat. He can barely hold his leg out for more than second before he has to drop it. To say that he is frustrated would be a minor understatement.

Smith is kneeling beside him, monitoring his movements, guiding his lifts and holds. When Levi speaks, he glances up, smiling.

“Yes, I did,” he says. His fingers curls against Levi’s skin as he pushes his leg up for one more lift. “Just three more.”

“No, you didn’t,” Levi grumbles. “What kind of doctor doesn’t introduce himself to his patients?”

“I’m not a doctor, first of all,” he says. Levi holds his leg out straight, clenching his teeth, and then drops it. “And yes, I did introduce myself to you, on your first day here. You just weren’t listening.”

“Oh.” Levi strains for one last stretch; his joints burn, and when he drops it, Smith claps in celebration. “Well, can you introduce yourself again?”

Smith rises and holds out his hands for Levi to take. As soon as Levi does, he shrugs. “I don’t think I will.”

“What?” Levi exclaims as he’s guided across the room. He hops; his knee burns. He collapses down onto the exercise mat beneath him and falls back, taking a deep breath. “Why not?”

“You don’t talk to me,” Smith says, sitting down next to him. “Why should I talk to you?”

“I talk to you,” Levi growls through clenched teeth. “I’m talking to you right now.”

“I meant about other things.” He hands Levi a water bottle. “We could talk about your injury, for example, and what that means to you.”

Levi stares at his water bottle. “I don’t have anything to say.”

“I’m just a physical therapist,” Smith continues, reaching across the mat for an exercise strap. “But many of my patients suffer emotionally because of their injuries, and they often find it helpful to talk about their feelings while on the path to recovery.”

Through the distorted reflection of his water bottle, Levi stares at his bandaged knee; the gauze is frayed and needs to be changed.

“Dancing means a lot to you, obviously,” Smith says. “It must hurt to know that it will be months before you can dance again.”

A heavy silence hangs over the room as Levi purses his lips. Finally, he looks up, his brow furrowed. “You’re a shitty doctor, you know that?” he exclaims, his voice cracking.

Smith raises his eyebrows.

“But you’re right,” Levi continues. “This sucks balls. This sucks so fucking much, and I fucking hate myself for trying to pull that stupid move without warming up first, I should have fucking known, I’m so stupid-”

The water bottle snaps in his fist, and water gushes out across the mat.

“Shit,” Levi hisses. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

He scrambles to clean up the mess, to soak up the water and undo everything, but a warm hand reaches out and stops him. Smith’s fingers are soft as they curl around his wrist.

“It’s alright,” Smith says. “It was an accident.”

Levi sits, shaking and silent, his cheeks burning like a petulant child, as Smith undoes all that he’s done and mops up the water with a roll of paper towels. When he’s finished, he glances at his watch and stands before Levi.

“Your session is over,” he says softly.

Levi clenches his fist against the mat. “Sorry,” he mutters, “for everything I said. That was stupid, I didn’t mean it.”

“Erwin.”

Levi pauses and glances up. Smith is holding out his hands to pull Levi up, but something has changed in his face, and he’s smiling again.

“What?” Levi asks.

“My name is Erwin,” Smith says. “Okay?”

Levi stares at him in a moment of silence, then sucks in a harsh breath. “That’s the dumbest fucking name-”

**five.**

“You seem like you’re doing better,” Hange says on the train home. “Is the therapy helping?”

For the first time in weeks, there isn’t a constant pain in his knee. Levi sinks down into his seat and shrugs. “I guess.”

**six.**

Three months to the day finds Levi lying back on the exercise mat, Erwin crouched at his feet as he pulls his injured leg up and down across the mat. He stares at himself in the dirty reflection of the overhead mirrors and furrows his brow at the weird image.

“I can’t take this seriously with you down there like that,” Levi mutters. “I feel like I’m giving birth.”

“I’m just happy to witness this miracle of life,” Erwin says. He has one hand on Levi’s other leg, and he beckons with his free hand for Levi to do it again. “Come on, we’re almost done.”

“Ugh.” Levi stares at the ceiling, wincing as he pulls his foot in towards his body. His knee clenches uncomfortably. “How many more?”

“Just one more!” Erwin exclaims. He flashes a golden smile. “Come on, you’re doing great. Just give me one more.”

Levi gives one last strenuous tug; he pulls his knee further, slides his heel up as far as he can, and finally Erwin gives a triumphant whoop.

“You did it,” he exclaims. He sits up on his knees and reaches over Levi to help pull him up.

“I did it,” Levi repeats. “I just had a baby. What do you want to call it?”

Erwin hands him a water bottle. “How about Victory?”

“Ugh, I shouldn’t have asked you.”

Erwin smiles. “In all seriousness, congratulations. You’ve improved so much in such a short amount of time. That was the first time you were able to pull your leg all the way back, well done.”

Levi takes a gulp of water. “Look at me,” he mutters when he swallows, “I can touch my heel to my ass. What an accomplishment.”

Erwin clasps a hand on his shoulder. “It is,” he says. “Take pride in the small things.”

Levi feels the familiar weight of that warm hand on his shoulder- those fingers brushing at the skin that slips out from beneath his loose shirt- and he has to remind himself again that this is over in just a few more weeks, that soon he will be dancing again, that soon everything will return to normal. But Erwin’s hand doesn’t move. It grows heavier there, comfortable on Levi’s shoulder, and they’re sitting awfully close the mat. Before he can stop himself, Levi leans forward and mutters, “How weird would it be if I kissed you right now?”

**seven.**

Pretty weird, it turns out.

**eight.**

Erwin instantly jerks away. Levi’s lips tingle from that millisecond of warmth, the soft touch that he hardly could have imagined before it happened just now; he pulls back, a hand instinctively touching to his lips as Erwin stumbles upright and moves to stand halfway across the room. He doesn’t offer Levi a hand.

“I’m sorry,” Erwin says, when he turns around to face Levi. His face is red, but his eyes are solemn. “You’re my patient, and I understand that you’re going through a difficult time, but we have a strict policy here and I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression-”

“This isn’t just some fucking fling,” Levi exclaims, throwing his water bottle down.

Erwin stops.

He stares at Levi from across the room: startled, but silent.

“I’ve told you shit about myself that I’ve never told anyone,” Levi says. He sits cross-legged on the mat, suddenly wishing he had been that man on the train tracks on that cold day three months ago. His knee burns again. “I told you all about dancing, and how much I miss it, and- I don’t get close to people, not like this, I don’t even tell that kind of crap to Hange, but I told you, and you’re just going to, like, fucking, throw it away like that.”

“I’m not,” Erwin objects quietly, but Levi holds up a hand, and he falls silent again.

“Whatever,” Levi grumbles. He pulls himself up onto his knees, an angry burn welling up in his throat. “I fucking get it, okay, you’re just doing your job. I’ll find another physical therapist, one who doesn’t pretend to be my friend and then-”

“Levi-”

“I said, _whatever_.”

Levi stumbles to his feet and starts for the door, but he takes one step and suddenly remembers the aching strain in his knee; he freezes, cursing.

“Let me help you,” Erwin mutters, rushing towards him. Levi smacks him away.

“I don’t need your fucking help-”

He takes another step, his injured leg dragging along the floor.

Erwin hovers behind him. “You’re going to hurt yourself even more, Levi, just let me-”

“I don’t need your fucking-”

Another wavering step and he collapses, crashing down onto the floor, smacking elbows and knees on the linoleum until he’s down and out. He lies on his stomach, unmoving, a hand clasped over his eyes, the burn in his throat taking over his whole body, and all it takes is for one tear to break free before the rest follow. His knee aches.

“Shit,” he hears Erwin mutter.

A gentle hand brushes over his hair. “It’s okay, Levi,” Erwin whispers, his damn voice too soft. An arm slides under his knees, another around his neck, and he’s being lifted off the ground, carried across the room to the examination table. “Levi, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that-”

“It’s not okay,” he mutters between clenched teeth. Everything is dark and everything hurts, but still gentle fingers clutch at him. “I have nothing, and it’s not going to be okay, it’s _not_ -”

The rest turns to tears.

**nine.**

His physical therapist’s name is Petra. She’s sweet, maybe a bit too sweet; but she gets the job done and his knee feels all the better after his last three weeks of rehabilitation. He walks back into the studio after four months and begins rehearsals for the last show of the season.

**ten.**

“You thought roses would make everything better?” Levi asks tartly when he lets Erwin into the dressing room.

Erwin falters in the doorway. His body language says _no, of course not_ , but still he offers the roses out to Levi. He takes them; the bouquet is wrapped in ribbons and a note sticks out: _congratulations_.

“I thought talking might make things better,” Erwin says, his voice low and soft.

Levi stares at him for a moment, trying to figure him out. He turns away, glancing back down to the bouquet, and crosses to his vanity table, where he plops down and pointedly avoids making eye contact with Erwin in the mirror. The room buzzes around them, as the rest of the corps change out of their tights and wipe off their makeup; they’re going out to celebrate a good opening. Levi lets them leave, one by one, and soon it’s just him and Erwin.

“Why bring these?” Levi asks, holding the bouquet up to the light. He raises an eyebrow. “You even drew a heart after your name.”

“I know you’re mocking me,” Erwin says, sighing, as he moves fully into the room. The door swings shut behind him, and suddenly things are very quiet and very small. “I just want you to know that I’m sorry.”

Levi glances up into the mirror; he meets Erwin’s gentle gaze.

“Sorry for what?” Levi asks.

Erwin hesitates. “I do like you, Levi.”

“You would, of course, now that I’ve been promoted to soloist.”

“And,” Erwin continues, ignoring Levi’s interjection, “I’m sorry for being such a dick when you tried to kiss me.”

Levi sets the bouquet down. “You kissed me back.”

He watches in the mirror as Erwin steps toward him, his movements light and ginger. “I know,” Erwin says. “I really did like you, I just- I would have been fired if my supervisor has found out. And I’m sorry for not making that clear from the beginning.”

A slight smirk appears on his lips. “I should have told you on the first day, when you were checking out my ass.”

Levi scoffs. “Fine,” he mutters. “Apology accepted.”

He feels Erwin approach behind him. In the mirror, he watches as a hesitant hand reaches out to brush through his hair. Levi lets him.

“You should know,” he murmurs. “I hate roses.”

Erwin bends until he’s breathing in Levi’s ear. “I’ll buy you another bouquet,” he whispers. “Want to come pick them out?”

“Is that your lame way of asking me out?”

“…yes.”

Levi spins his chair around, suddenly, until he’s facing Erwin. “You’re a shit physical therapist,” he says.

Erwin holds out a hand, and Levi takes it.

“I know,” Erwin says. “I wanted to be a model.”

Levi pauses, halfway out of his chair. “Are you serious?”

Erwin smiles. “It didn’t work out, obviously.”

“So was it-?”

“Nude modeling?” He sighs. “I knew you would ask that.”

“But was it?”

Erwin pulls him up out of his chair. “I was a college student,” he starts in a low voice, and Levi raises his eyebrows. “I had to make money somehow.”

“God, I knew it.”

“It was just for an art class,” Erwin protests at Levi’s smirk. “For solely artistic purposes.”

“I wish I could have been there,” Levi says. He trails a hand up Erwin’s arm.

“If you take up drawing, maybe I can give you a private session.”

Levi smirks at that; his hand traces across Erwin’s collarbones until it finds his tie. He pulls him down, and whispers, “I’m going to kiss you now.”

Their lips meet. Erwin snakes a hand behind Levi’s neck, and Levi clutches his fingers at those broad shoulders, at the soft sun kissed skin, at Erwin.


End file.
